Cold Comfort
by Alexandra Spar
Summary: Winter, some unidentifiable time in season 3. Neal is ill; June's furnace is broken while she's out of town; Peter and Elizabeth Burke take in their favorite criminal and try to keep him warm and out of trouble. Shades of OT3.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: _White Collar_ and all characters and indicia thereof are the property of their respective creators and/or copyright holders. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

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><p>Words, for Peter Burke, were tools. Plebeian things, like bricks, meant to be put together to create a coherent and contiguous whole; building blocks, unromantic, unsubtle. Whenever he found himself in the position of having to put together a meaningful speech he stumbled; it was only thanks to El's astonishing ability to fill in the unsaid blanks that their communication was as good as it, in fact, turned out to be.<p>

Which was why Peter found it almost impossible to explain even to himself why Neal Caffrey's eyes were so

(alarming)

(unique)

(effective)

out-of-the-ordinary. It had to do with the pale clear blue of the iris, but that wasn't all; for some reason the transparent dome of the cornea seemed to be sharper-pitched, as if Neal's pale-blue irises tilted down to the black hole of his pupils, as if there were a bright clear ring of crystal over the entire center of the eye. It meant that you could see very clearly when Neal's pupils expanded and contracted; it meant that when he glanced to the side the light flickered off those tilted iris walls and gave the exact depth and clarity of a forty-carat blue topaz in a Tiffany setting. Those were not ignorable eyes; those were not eyes easy to deny.

Especially when combined with that bright, dazzling, who-me smile and that just-so arch of the eyebrows. For the most part Peter found his desire to strangle Neal less forceful than his desire to stare into those eyes, but sometimes it was a near thing.

Neal had been somewhat pale and subdued all week, and Peter put it down to some disagreement with Mozzie or the fact that the anniversary of Kate's death was a few days away. He certainly hadn't expected to find his CI leaning on the sink in the FBI men's room coughing himself almost sick.

When Neal could gasp in a breath and straighten up he saw Peter in the mirror over the sink and went, if possible, paler. Peter stepped forward and touched Neal's shoulder. "Why the hell didn't you say you were sick? -Go on, get out of here. Go home."

"Can't," Neal said, wiping his mouth, trying for the bright bouncy tone and failing miserably. "June's out of town and the furnace is broken. They said they'd get it repaired sometime this week, but..."

But it was cold as balls outside, and with a broken furnace it'd be no less pleasant indoors. Neal caught a breath wrong and began to cough again, an unpleasant bronchial noise; Peter had to wonder again how long he'd been feeling sick. He reached out to rest the back of his hand against Neal's forehead, ignoring his protests, and frowned.

"Come with me," he said, his tone brooking no refusal.

In the clearer light of his glass-walled office Neal looked terrible; pale, his tie unforgivably loosened, his face and throat sheened with sweat. His hair flopped unbecomingly-it seemed to be possible-over his forehead as he shivered. "Peter, really. I'm fine. This is just a cold or something. People are, are looking..."

He lost the sentence in another fit of coughing, and Peter could tell it hurt. "How long have you been feeling bad?"

"...couple of days? Really, it's, I get this sometimes, it's a cold, it's nothing." Neal leaned back against the chair, eyes half-closed. Peter watched them: glittering pale-blue slits. Far too bright. "-If it weren't for the furnace I'd get out of your hair now but..."

"But the furnace, so shut up, all right?" Peter was tapping through his phone contacts for El's number. "-Hey, hon? What are you up to right now?"

Elizabeth didn't sound rushed, at least. "Hey, you. Not much, sitting around waiting for a vendor to call me back, what's up?"

"It's Neal," Peter said, and heard her indrawn breath on the other end. "He's not feeling so great and it sounds like his place has no heat right now-"

"Oh, hon. I can come get him right away. This isn't a huge event anyway, all I need to do for now is confirm seating and plate price."

Peter raised his eyebrows at the phone, and at his wife's immediate offer to take in their pet criminal. "I was going to say can I get you to watch him for me, but..."

"But nothing, Peter Burke, if Neal's sick enough to worry you he's sick enough to worry me. I'll be there in twenty."

He looked up from the phone, expecting to see Neal crossly gesturing at him to cut it out and stop calling his wife to babysit their CI; Neal was huddled in the chair, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. Worry struck through Peter again, unwanted. "El's on her way," he said. "She'll take you to my place and pour soup into you. I don't have to mention anything about trying to escape, do I?"

Neal looked up at him through the damp hair. "El's coming?"

It was as naked and simple an expression of gratitude as he'd ever seen, and all the snarky remarks regarding anklets and people's wives withered on Peter's tongue. "Yeah, she'll take care of you. Okay? You're going to be fine."

For a moment those astonishing eyes stared back at him, achingly grateful, and then Neal began to cough again, his slim shoulders shaking with it. Peter said several bad words and came around the desk to rub Neal's back, his hand warm and square and capable, not thinking about what he was doing with a palpable effort. Poor kid sounded like he had when he'd had bronchitis in eighth grade; Peter could remember how miserable he had been.

It seemed to help, at least a little; after a moment or two Neal could gasp in a breath and just drooped in the chair, breathing rather more noisily than he would like. Peter went on rubbing his back a moment longer before retreating to his own proper behind-the-desk chair and putting on his fiercest FBI Face.

El was as good as her word; twenty minutes later the elevator dinged and she walked into the bullpen, returning Jones' little wave and Diana's nod. Nobody got in her way as she climbed the half-flight of stairs to Peter's office, or as she blinked at what she found there and dropped her handbag, hurrying over to kneel beside Neal's chair. "Hey, Neal, honey, it's me, it's Elizabeth, you're going to be just fine..."

"Thanks, El," said Peter, who was watching with evident relief. "I think he's been sick for a couple of days but I just found him hacking his lungs out in the bathroom; if there's no heat at his place I don't even want to think about..."

"I'm right here, people," Neal protested weakly. "Really you don't have to-"

More coughing, and El slipped her arm around his shoulders, aware of how thin he was, how _hot_ beneath the fine shirt. "Course we do, hon. Here, c'mon, let's get you out of here."

Everyone was watching. Neal leaned heavily on Elizabeth for a moment or two before hauling himself together, forcing himself to stand upright and steady. She shot a glance at Peter, who returned it with one of his own-_okay, yeah, dignity is important_-before handing her handbag over and nodding to the pair of them. "Thanks, El," he said, quietly, just before they left the office.

It was about as hard as any of Neal's command performances, crossing the bullpen. He carried his own weight and even managed a glassy grin at some of the agents as they passed; it wasn't until he and El were inside the elevator that he drooped on her shoulder and shivered helplessly. Without the hat he looked desperately young, desperately vulnerable.

El hugged him close, taking some of his weight. When they reached the first floor she gave him a little squeeze. "Can you make it out to the car, honey?"

Yeah. Yeah, he could make it out to the car. He could even try for a jaunty smile, even if it looked somewhat more like a horrible rictus. Neal put one foot in front of the other until they were at Elizabeth's car and he could half-fall into the front seat and give himself up to the coughing fit that he'd been trying to stifle all the way from Peter's office.

"...sorry, El," he managed, muffled in his fist. "I'm sorry about this. I'll be out of your hair soon. Promise."

She reached over and patted his hand. "You shut up, Neal Caffrey. You need to be in bed."


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: _White Collar_ and its characters and related indicia belong to its creators and/or copyright holders. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

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><p>It had begun as a faint pain in his sinuses, quickly passing; then a scratchy throat which had lasted a day and a half before turning into a tight and difficult cough he'd had to hide from Peter. Neal had thought at first that he was in for another standard winter New York cold, the annoying sort that made your nose run and your voice go amusing, but instead of turning into violent sneezes and laryngitis, this one seemed to settle in his chest. He could feel it, a sort of hot unpleasantness just behind his breastbone, especially at night, when his cough shook him and would not let him go.<p>

Then the heat had gone off. He...hadn't wanted to annoy June on holiday. Over the weekend he'd stayed in his loft wrapped up in blankets and all the sweaters he owned, hoping to throw off whatever was bothering him; although he'd slept a lot, it didn't seem to help. By Saturday night he had a temperature, and by Sunday night he was even grateful for the chill in the air; it felt good against his hot skin. He wriggled out of the layers of warm clothing and lay on top of the covers, shirtless, tossing and turning to try and find a cool spot on the pillow. There were odd breathless terrifying dreams.

In the morning he remembered to ask June's housekeeper to call the furnace repairmen, and was told they'd been working on it for some time already. Neal had nodded dully at this intelligence, and gone to unearth an ancient half-bottle of ibuprofen stashed in the bathroom cabinet, settling down to pills and tea for breakfast.

The ibuprofen did what it could, bringing his temperature down, easing the pain, and he thought he had the thing beat for a while-long enough to get into work and settle at his computer and start looking through cold case files, before the intolerable tickle in his throat and chest caught up with him and drove him to the bathroom to hack in relative privacy over the sink. It was...bad, the coughs doubling him over, making his eyes stream; for a moment or two he thought he'd be sick, but his breath returned and let him lean on the sink, panting, wheezing, for a long moment before he caught Agent Burke's worried eyes in the mirror.

_Oh shit_.

Burke-_Peter_-had said something and come forward to feel his forehead; Neal had winced away from the coolness of his hand. No, he couldn't go home. June's house, the furnace, not right now. Let him stay here in the office where it was warm? But Peter was talking again, and then he was in Peter's office, feeling somehow as if the air was more breathable here, and Peter was on the phone to someone. He blinked hard, trying to make this all make sense.

El slid the car into their prized and well-earned parking spot and leaned over to wake him. "Neal, hon, we're here. We're home."

The words were offhand, casual, and yet Neal-half-dreaming still-couldn't help but attach meaning to them. _Home_. He blinked hard several times, trying to get reality to settle, and managed to find the button to undo his own seatbelt. El had to help him into the house, though, her hand astonishingly strong wrapped around his waist, her shortness made entirely out of iron. Neal thought disconnectedly that he ought to weld a woman out of iron, an essence of a woman, and see whether it made him think of El. Everything hurt.

She deposited him on the couch with the confidence of practice. Neal dreamed: had she been that kind of college girl who helped her drunken friends in extremis? had she had experience handling someone not quite steady on his feet and liable to keel over at any moment? That he was relegated to the category of drunk fratboy rankled a bit, but Neal didn't have the strength to say anything in his favor just at the moment. He sank into the couch and pressed his face against the cool cushions, eyes closed, shivering.

Bustling, and then she was there again with something hot and pleasant-smelling. "Here, Neal. Tea with honey and lemon. D'you feel like eating anything?"

He wasn't sure, but the heat of the teacup (and the kindness, God the kindness) woke him to some kind of effort at being Neal Caffrey; he took the cup in his palms to warm them and drew a deep breath of its aromatic steam before trying to meet Elizabeth's eyes. "Um," he said. "Not really? Kind of haven't been hungry in a while now."

She nodded, as if they were talking about the weather. "It's okay. Take that slowly and let me know if you feel sick, okay? There's a bit of ginger in there that might help your stomach."

Neal shut his eyes again in embarrassment, but the thirst and the appeal of the hot sharp smell of the tea pushed that out of the way. He settled back against his couch cushions and took a sip, surprised at how much it didn't hurt.

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><p>Some time later Peter let himself into the house, tentatively, not at all sure what to expect. El hadn't called or texted him, so he assumed nothing was noteworthy enough of immediate communication, but still...he was a bit curious as to how she'd dealt with an ailing Neal. Or, in other words, whether an ailing Neal was romancing his wife.<p>

Satchmo came galumphing up to greet him, and Peter had to spend some minutes ruffling the dog's fur and fending off sloppy kisses; when he straightened up, there was El, wineglass in hand, reaching for him. "Come here, you."

"Well, hello there, Mrs. Burke," he said. "I take it our patient wasn't any trouble?"

She curled her other arm around his waist and stood up on tiptoe to kiss him firmly. "No trouble at all. He's upstairs in the guest bedroom, poor guy was really zonked when I got him home. I think he'll be okay, he just needs rest and OJ and a functioning central heater."

Peter kissed her back, just as firmly, and let her lead him through to the kitchen, where she poured him a glass of Shiraz as well and made him hold the oven door for her as she hauled out a sizzling pan of lasagna. "Looks fantastic, hon. So he...just...biddably went up to bed, no questions asked, no quibbling?"

"Yeah, pretty much. He gave me the most astonishing sad-puppy eyes when I brought him a cup of tea, Peter, it was heart-wrenching. If he ever figures out he can leverage that against women he is going to be _unstoppable_."

"You think he's okay, though?" Peter made a face the moment he'd said it, and rubbed at his forehead. "Goddamn Neal Caffrey. Of course he's okay, he's _always_ okay. It's a thing."

"He's running a temperature. But we got it down to a hundred with ibuprofen, I don't think it's anything more than a really horrible cold. Or flu, but, well. Nothing you can really do for either except soup and tea and juice and Advil."

Peter nodded, accepting this as read. "Did he eat anything, though?"

"I got some soup down him and it stayed down-he was a bit uncertain about that, but it seemed to settle all right. In a while I'll go up and see if he's awake and if he wants anything." El got plates out of the warmer-oven and served them up lasagna with green salad. "For now, honey, enjoy your dinner and quit worrying?"

"It's kind of an occupational hazard," said Peter, but he gladly shed his suit jacket and helped her carry the plates and the salad bowl through to the dining-room. "But thanks, El. Really. Thank you for dropping everything and coming to get him. I didn't know what else to do."

"Under the circumstances," she said, refilling their glasses, "I don't think you had a lot of choice, Peter. You're a good man."

"That's me," he said, grinning. "Agent Burke: Good Man."

Neal was asleep when El went up to check on him; she refilled the half-empty glass of water beside the bed, and counted out two more Advil tablets in case he woke wanting them. She and Peter washed up the dinner things and watched some TV before she went up to bed; in half an hour or so he followed her, settling into the warmth of the bed and wrapping himself comfortably around the curves of his wife.

It wasn't until about four in the morning that he came awake, unsure of what had woken him. Ever since he'd become an FBI agent, having to train himself to be aware at all times of any tiny detail in his surroundings, he'd found it difficult to sleep through windstorms, or lightning, or even the tiny beeping of his phone warning of low batteries. The smallest noise could wake him to cold lucidity, because in his day job it might mean danger.

He lay awake, staring at the corner of the wall above his wife's shoulder. Then it came again, a little noise, dulled by corridor and wall and space, but a miserable one.

Shirtless, wearing only his pyjama bottoms, Peter eased himself out of the bed as carefully as possible to avoid waking Elizabeth. In the darkness sounds seemed magnified; he crept across the hallway to the guest-room, and found it, too, dark, but half-lit from the bathroom light that spilled across the carpet.

Neal was huddled over the toilet, wearing what Peter recognized as a set of his own nightclothes-of course-with his forehead rested on his crossed arms. Sweat darkened the fine cotton down his back.

Peter bit back a couple of nasty words and knelt down beside Neal, putting a hand on his back. Neal jerked in shock and groaned, twisting his head to squint up at Peter: those astonishing eyes were glittering, wide with pain, almost colorless in the bathroom's overhead light.

"Hey," he said. "It's me. Neal, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe."

The eyes closed; Neal relaxed in a boneless slump under his hand. Peter had to not say _more_ bad words at the blatant, wordless gratitude, and tugged a towel down from the rail to wrap around Neal's thin shoulders for warmth. "You think you're done?"

Neal was shivering in long comber-waves, unpleasant to feel, much more unpleasant to experience. He shook his head after a moment, and Peter settled in beside him, still holding him, wanting to make the unavoidable less awful. The thought occurred that Neal might prefer to be alone while throwing up his toenails, but that look of absolute thankfulness at the sight of Peter told him his presence was welcome.

After a moment or two Neal's throat hitched and he leaned farther over the bowl, making industrial grinding noises; whatever was left of El's soup came up. Peter rubbed his back through it, not saying anything-what the hell was there to say-and when Neal at last slumped back, his breathing beginning to ease, Peter flushed the toilet and leaned up to get him a cup of water from the sink.

"Here," he said. "Wash your mouth out first. I know I have some Dramamine somewhere but you have to give your innards a minute to settle."

Neal took the cup in shaking fingers, swished and spit, and looked up at him with (those amazing) wide eyes. "...Peter," he said.

"Well, you _are_ in my house," Peter pointed out. "Think you can handle the walk back to bed? I won't tell El if you won't."

That got a rather ghastly flicker of a smile, and Neal let Peter haul him to his feet, leaning on the older man for the few steps from bathroom to bedside. He was still shivering, but he looked, in the four a.m. twilight, less miserable-but the misery seemed to come back when Peter headed for the door. He had to pause. Was Neal _wanting_ him to stay? "I'm just getting you clean clothes," he whispered. "Relax, okay?"

Tiptoeing in and out of his own room while trying not to wake his wife was novel. Peter hoped, very much, that the squeak of the dresser drawer hadn't roused El, but she just moved slightly under the covers and sighed, and he crept silently out of the room with a fresh pair of pyjamas.

"Here," he said quietly, back in the guest room. Neal hadn't moved, sitting and shivering with the towel wrapped round his shoulders. "-You have to get out of those damp clothes, okay? Here."

Neal blinked in the dimness and seemed to shake himself, trying to find lucidity, and fumbled at his buttons for long enough that Peter had to stifle cursing a third time and settle on the bed beside him. "Let me."

In short order he'd got Neal out of his sweat-soaked shirt and into a clean dry one; he went to busy himself in the bathroom while Neal laboriously changed pyjama bottoms, coming back with a fresh glass of water and a small yellow pill. And a towel, which he settled over the pillows.

Neal tried to smile a bit at the towel. Protecting those Martha Stewart sheets, yeah, that's suburbia. Peter tucked him in, sitting on the edge of the bed to feel his forehead. "Think you're going to be okay," he said. "But there's the trash can right here if you need it, and, hell, yell if you need anything. Really."

He was a little surprised at the words coming out of his mouth, but no less surprised at that immediate, naked gratitude on Neal's face for a third time, the same expression he'd had when Peter called El to pick him up, and when he'd come into the bathroom.

"Thanks," Neal said, catching Peter's hand. "Thank you." The fingers were too warm, dry, little light touches.

"Pff. Take your pill and go to sleep, Neal Caffrey." Peter reached out, without meaning to, and brushed some of the damp hair from Neal's forehead. "That's an order."


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: _White Collar_, its characters and related indicia belong to their respective creators and copyright holders. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

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><p>In the morning Peter had to thwack the snooze button twice, and it was only El getting ready that spurred him out of bed in the end. He sleepwalked through a shower and shave; she had to straighten his tie and put a mug of coffee in his hand when he got downstairs. "Didn't sleep well?"<p>

"Eh. I had weird dreams," Peter said, skimming over the four A.M. encounter with his CI. "Getting up to speed, hon. I'll make it."

"You better. I have a meeting this afternoon, if Neal's no better I might need you to come home and watch him." It was amazing how quickly she'd incorporated their pet criminal into their routine. "-Well, on the whole I think he can _probably_ be trusted to watch himself, but you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean." He mentally flipped through the day's schedule. "I don't think there's anything crucial this afternoon, I can probably get home around two, if that works?"

"That's perfect." El kissed him firmly. "Go catch the bad guys, hon. I'll see you tonight."

"Yes ma'am." He raised an invisible cowboy hat. "Hey, let me know how he's doing, okay? I bet he'll sleep half the day through, but keep me posted."

She nodded, and put her cup down to wrap her arms around him and hug him tight. "I love you, Peter Burke. We'll be in touch."

Another tip of the invisible hat, and he shrugged into his coat. "See that you are. Have a good day, honey."

When the door closed behind Peter, Elizabeth looked up at the ceiling, wondering exactly how much Neal Caffrey knew about her husband, and how much her husband actually cared for Neal Caffrey; because, she was finding out, it was almost impossible not to love the man.

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><p>She brought him up a tray a little later: tea with honey, toast, a soft-boiled egg, with a bud snipped from their backyard climbing rose in a small vase. "I can't help it," she said, when he gave her an eyebrow at the sight of the vase. "Event planner. I think aesthetics. How're you feeling, honey?"<p>

Neal looked wan, and there was something off about him Elizabeth couldn't quite place; then it came to her. She'd given him Peter's blue pinstripe pyjamas yesterday, and this morning he was in Peter's beige pinstripe pyjamas. Which, she thought, meant something had happened in the night, and combined with Peter's morning somnolence probably meant he'd been there for it.

All of this flashed across her mind's eye without registering on her face, and she could tell Neal was a little relieved that she didn't make any mention of his change in clothes. He shrugged a bit, and she noticed that not only was the guest-room trash bin beside the bed but one of the guest-room towels was draped over the pillows behind him. _Poor Neal_, she thought, and then _He should have woken me_, but Peter seemed to have managed the situation on his own.

_I love that man._

Neal eyed the toast and egg suspiciously. "I'm not sure I..."

"Don't worry. Just drink the tea, you don't have to eat anything if you don't want to." Elizabeth busied herself with the curtains, giving him a chance to get control of everything, and then came back to perch on the bed. "Peter's at work, of course, but he should be home this afternoon. I have a meeting out on Long Island-" eyeroll-"with what I hope should be a super-wonderful-marvelous client, but he said he'd be home around two to make sure you stay out of trouble."

Neal had nibbled on one of the toast soldiers while she was busy with the window, and having realized his stomach was enthusiastic about further activity, was attacking his egg hungrily. "-He doesn't have to," he said, toast soldier halfway to his mouth. "I mean. I...I'm not going to do anything. You could put me in a taxi and June's people would get the fare, it's..."

"Oh, Neal." Elizabeth reached out to touch his tumbled hair. "That is _not_ what I meant. Neither of us want you to be home alone while you're ill, okay? We just want to make sure someone's around to wait on you hand and foot. You're still pretty feverish and I'm not letting you go off to June's until you're properly better."

He seemed to slump a bit, and smiled up at her through the hair. "Thanks, El."


End file.
